


so long between the words we spoke

by elegantidler



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Historical References, M/M, Palais Garnier, Pre-Canon, Trans Character, Trans Erik, Trans Male Character, trans daroga
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:09:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26188501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elegantidler/pseuds/elegantidler
Summary: The Persian gets an invitation to the opening of the new opera
Relationships: Erik | Phantom of the Opera/The Persian
Comments: 5
Kudos: 16





	so long between the words we spoke

The opening of the new Paris Opera house was going to be a grand event.

It had taken more than a decade and three different governments to complete the construction of the building and now, finally, it stood tall and beautiful in all its opulent glory, ready to house the prestigious Opera and to entertain the elite of Paris.

The rich, the powerful, the men of the world, anyone and everyone who mattered in Paris was going to be in attendance, which was why Raheem was slightly confused to have received an invitation and box ticket for the inaugural performance. The envelope had arrived two weeks ago, neatly addressed to name he had cobbled together when he arrived in Paris: Raheem Abbas Mazandarani. The invitation itself was addressed to simply Raheem, written in red ink and proper calligraphy, and that only served to make the situation more confusing. 

But confusion and the ever present background worry of someone living in exile aside, he had walked past the building's impressive façade so many times since arriving in Paris, watched as it inched closer to completion over the years, and he found himself looking forward to the opening, regardless of the mystery.

The evening of the inaugural performance he dressed in his best European evening-wear and his kolah. Even here, so far away from his home, he couldn’t bring himself to replace it with a European top hat and it felt too wrong to go out bareheaded. People would stare at it of course, but people had been staring at him, for various reasons, all his life.

He navigated through the crowds in the foyer, taking in the gilded columns and murals, ignoring all the second glances and whispers.

An usher showed him the way to his seat and he stepped into the lavishly decorated box five.

As he settled into one of the seats he heard a faint rustling behind him and turned to see a figure stepping out of the shadows.

A very familiar figure…

“My God,” he murmured.

Erik stood before him, flesh and bone and _real_ , well-dressed and wearing a dark mask that covered the upper portion of his face.

More than fifteen years of separation weighed on the silence between them. Neither of them knew what to say. Raheem had never really believed that they would see each other again.

Erik shifted awkwardly.

“So you got the invitation then?”

“ _You_ sent it?” Raheem asked incredulously.

“Of course I sent it,” Erik said drawing himself up proudly, “I helped build this place, I maintain a certain…influence with the director.”

Raheem shook his head in confusion.

“How did you know where to send it? How did you even know I was in Paris?”

“Oh, Parisians aren’t used to seeing Iranis,” Erik gestured to Raheem’s hat. “They talk. Most of them seem to think that you're here as the shah’s ambassador. I'm sure you appreciate the irony.”

“So…” Raheem said slowly, his brain still trying to process what was happening.

“So, after you got away…you helped build this majestic building, where beautiful things will be performed, you found me, and you’re sharing all it with me…”

Erik crossed his arms.

“Well, I promised.”

“I knew it.” 

“Knew what?”

“Knew that deep down under all that bloodshed, you had a soft heart. I knew that you didn't deserve what the shah had planned for you.”

What little of Erik’s face he could see turned bright pink and Raheem smiled smugly.

“Erik is not soft,” he muttered to himself.

“Whatever you say.”

Raheem settled back into his seat and after a moment Erik settled on the one beside him.

The silence was warm and companionable now, so easily had they slipped back into their old familiarity.

When Raheem had been forced to flee Iran shortly after Erik had, he had headed for Paris, telling himself that at least he had a passable knowledge of French so as to survive there. Secretly, he had hoped, but never truly believed, that he would find Erik again there. But somehow, against all odds, here they were, sitting together again. It was more than either of them deserved after all they had done in Mazandaran, but if God saw fit to bring them back together, it was not Raheem’s place to question it, but to accept it gladly with a heart lighter than it had been in a very long time.

“How are you finding Paris?” Erik asked, breaking the silence.

“It’s very well lit,” Raheem paused. “And people still stare but at least no one thinks anything of not having a beard here. It’s surprisingly nice.”

A corner of Erik’s mouth twitched up.

“It is nice, isn’t it? Very different from how it was back then.”

Raheem laughed for the first time in months. It had been so long that he had nearly forgotten what his own laughter sounded like.

“Erik…no one thought there was anything different about you in Iran. Everyone just assumed you liked a close shave because you were European.” 

Erik tilted his head. 

“Which one is worse?”

Raheem laughed again, loud enough to turn several heads. Erik smiled fully this time and the sight of it hit Raheem squarely in the chest. Erik’s smile had been so rare in Iran, seen only in private moments between them and God he had missed it. 

A hush fell over the rest of opera as the curtain rose and the gaslights were dimmed as the performance began.

Raheem leaned closer to Erik, their shoulders brushing.

“I missed you, you know. Despite its benefits, Paris is…lonely,” he admitted in a low whisper.

Erik turned his head quickly to look at him.

And very suddenly, Raheem realized just how close together they were now. The nose on Erik's mask was almost touching Raheem's own nose.

He held his breath, the real weight of everything they had been through, of everything they had done, of five years together and seventeen years apart, was hanging in the breath of space between them.

Erik’s unusual gold eyes shone in the darkened opera and Raheem saw them flick downward to his own mouth for a fraction of a second and Raheem made his choice.

He closed the scant distance between them, relief flooding through him when Erik met him halfway, and finally did the thing he had regretted not doing ever since he had watched Erik ride away from Tehran: he kissed Erik quickly, gently on the mouth.

He moved to pull away but Erik’s hand had already found its way to the nape of his neck, keeping him close, his other hand resting lightly on Raheem’s thigh. He leaned his masked forehead against Raheem’s.

“I missed you too.”

And then, before Raheem could fully smile at that, Erik kissed him back. It was clumsy and awkward and intense, and it was the best thing that had ever happened to Raheem.

**Author's Note:**

> Almost everyone, not just Iranis, who visited Paris in the 19th century mentioned how well lit the streets were. 
> 
> 'Kolah' is Farsi for hat and in this example it is a [kolah-e Qajar](https://cefantomeenhabitnoir.tumblr.com/post/626111760592666624/regarding-the-bonnet-dastrakan-aka-bonnet), what Leroux refers to as an Astrakhan hat.
> 
> Beards and mustaches were important aspects of masculinity in the 1850s Iran and Europeans who were there in an official capacity were generally more clean shaven. This difference played into a lot into the culture of the anxieties of modernity (see Najmabadi's Women with Mustaches and Men without Beards) and was obviously even more complicated for these two trans men.
> 
> Iranis didn't use surnames prior to 1919 so Raheem turned his demonym into his surname and added it to his given names for official documentation once he arrived in Paris. 
> 
> There's a good chance this will either get a second chapter or a companion fic about after the performance but the draft is about to expire for this so stay tuned maybe.


End file.
